


Yeah.

by Ms_Chunks



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: D.va is a bit of a camwhore, F/M, If you're a hater: good, Jack lends a hand, Just good old fashioned old man lust, No daddy stuff, Non-Penetrative Sex, Praise Kink probably, Sexual Content, The salt of hater's tears brings out the garbage flavours in my trash ships, dva76, i wrote this for you, rarepair, shipping week, there will be smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9604874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Chunks/pseuds/Ms_Chunks
Summary: Written for the Dva76 Shipping week on tumblr.Soldier 76, D.va, a Christmas Party that's not a Christmas Party and some outrageous festively-themed socks. To say nothing of the horrors of war and crippling fear of death - not his of course, but he's watched too many good soldiers die to let this hothead go without saying something. For all the good it does either of them.





	1. Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Haters may address their nonsensical spluttering to my inbox at my tumblr, fear3loathing, as advertised on my other problematic ship in another fandom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 Prompt: Snow
> 
> *Reaches real hard for the prompts*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am chronically incapable of writing one-shots anymore apparently, my offering for the Dva76 week has morphed into the form of this... well, it is what it is. *Pulls party popper*

In the flurry of meeting-room politics about if, when and how to hold an Overwatch Christmas party that’s compliant with the new ‘inclusivity regulations’, Soldier 76 is particularly grateful for the mask that covers his agonised expression as he has to forcibly restrain himself several times a minute from snapping that it never used to be so goddam hard to throw a Christmas Party when he was in charge so why the hell can’t they cut the frigging bullshit and just _do it already._

“Then it’s settled,” Winston announces in a way that almost sounds conclusive, shaking 76 out of the cynical haze he’s been stewing in. “Overwatch’s… _Snow Festivities_ … it is.”

“Yes, sure, Winston – _anything,”_ Tracer pleads, having been seen literally banging her head on the table at various intervals throughout the meeting. Why she insisted on joining the planning committee in the first place beggars belief, though deep down 76 knows she wrote her name on the sign-up sheet to make sure the majority of the budget is spent on booze; which, of course, new regulations is bound to make difficult.

The only reason _he’d_ joined was to make sure they didn’t do something stupid like hire the wrong kind of ‘helper’ for Santa and end up with a room full of candy-cane swinging ‘Miss Santas’ who’d been on the Naughty List every year since they turned legal… _again_. Coincidentally why no one with a surname beginning ‘Mc’ and ending ‘Cree’ is allowed to join by a special top-down order that no one can seem to trace, although he's fairly sure the cowboy had been the fall boy for…

Never mind. Even if it’d been an _excellent_ party all things considered.

“No, no,” Winston insists, poring over a tiny sheet of A4 paper with his oversized hands. “It’s explicitly clear, _funds cannot be expended on non-inclusive amenities_ , so because some members of Overwatch cannot consume alcohol-”

“The drinking age here is _eighteen_ , big guy,” Tracer lobbies.

“I’m _aware_ of that, Lena,” he rounds back on her. “However, some members do not imbue such spirits for medical, religious or…” He scrunches up his eyes at another sheet of paper, mumbling as he reads, “ _’dishonourable things happen’_ … reasons, so it is simply not possible to spend Overwatch funds on a vodka fountain.”

“Vhat about beer?” Zarya comments from the far end of the table. “Iz not really alcohol.”

“Yur talkin’ nonsense,” Torbjorn cuts in. “The head would foam up far too much, it’d be nar-undrinkable!”

“At least I am offer solutions!” Zarya belts.

“Yes and that’s much _appreciated_ ,” Winston intercedes before things get heated – it’s only the second meeting of the planning committee and its ranks have already doubled, a larger room needing to be booked as soon as word got out that a ‘Snow Festivity’ party was actually going ahead at a yet-to-be-agreed location. “However, the guidelines are _very_ clear on this and it’s simply _not_ possible.”

At this point a vocal majority of the meeting room break into furious complaints about the nonsensical nature of inclusivity policies, while a smaller but equally vocal contingent start to argue in favour, and that a Christmas – sorry, ‘Snow Festivity’ Party is not just an excuse for a massive piss-up, besides which maybe _certain_ members of the committee could leave off abuse of their livers for a-

“So Overwatch funds can’t be spent directly on booze, right?” Soldier 76 cuts in from the back of the room, where most of the committee had apparently forgotten he was there.

“Uh… yes, correct,” Winston confirms warily.

“So subcontract it,” he delivers through the tinny casing of his mask – fortunate, or everyone would see him grinding his teeth and wondering exactly how many of these screaming children he could whack upside their heads before they’d get the picture and start finding _solutions_ instead of screaming like babies who can't find the tit. “Hire a supplier who can offer a range of drinks, alcoholic or not, then put money behind the bar for people to spend on whatever they damn-well want.” He pauses for a moment as the entire room falls silent, staring at him like the goddam messiah. “Would that work?”

The eyes, almost in unison, turn back to Winston at the other end of the room like an audience at a tennis match.

“Well…” he begins, “I suppose it would.”

The crowd breaks out in unanimous cheers.

The ‘Snow Festivity’ Party, as Winston and only people within earshot of Winston will refer to it as, is proving to be an unlikely success.

Nowhere off-base would agree to the insurance premiums of having so many ‘high risk’ assets within its walls, to say nothing of ‘ _persons on more than three different nations’ most wanted lists._ ’ Even the third meeting of the planning committee - namely, most of Overwatch - agreed that holding the big bash anywhere except the aircraft hangar was probably foolish.

However, it doesn’t look half bad covered in a solid foot of snow, an impressive array of snowflake-themed hard light installations, and folded paper decorations the planning committee had made in their fifth meeting as a ‘cooldown’ exercise after a discussion about what kind of snacks should be stocked on the buffet table ended in physical violence.

Soldier 76 arrives later than the more enthusiastic attendees, stuck behind a desk and mountain of paperwork even _death_ can’t keep from him, apparently. However, given the agonising birth this project had been subjected to, it’s at least somewhat gratifying to see it flourish into the irresponsible young adult stage of its life cycle. In other words, nothing is on fire yet, but that’s probably only because of all the snow.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” comes a sing-song voice from behind him, and he turns around to clock none other than Hana Song sitting on a storage crate above his head. There’s very few people who can get the drop on him in any sense of the word, but outside of that MEKA he could probably pull her out of his pocket without noticing until she’d filled him full of bullets from that party-popper pistol she runs; though he’d taken enough stray friendly fire out there to know they sure as shit hurt. She’s marginally more careful in the monster of a machine she rides, as the holes it makes don't heal up so easy, but once she pops outta it quickly turns into a trigger-happy slip of almost nothing that didn’t stay still for a half-second, much less stop firing. It frightens the life out of an old soldier like him in a textbook of ways.

Whatever she is outside the battlefield – which is unprofessional, undisciplined and _wilfully_ ignorant of the meaning of confidentiality agreements – she gets away with it for her stalwart dedication on it. However, if Talon wants to know what Agent D.Va, youngest member of Overwatch and ‘social media superstar’ is doing at any given point in time, they need only check her latest updates. He’s repeatedly requested her access to ‘any and all social medias’ be blocked when she's on-base, but the terror keeps finding ways around it.

He’d confronted her about it once; no longer an office to call people into or authority to lean on when he gave orders and expected people to _take them_ , but he stuck an arm in front of her in a hallway once and demanded to know exactly what she thought she was damn-well doing by putting all their lives at risk leaking information like a busted faucet. She turned her chin up at him and managed to look down her nose in spite of the foot-and-something he has on her.

               “What?” she spat like a piece of the bubblegum she always seems to have on the go – he stuck his finger through it once when she wouldn’t stop blowing bubbles during a briefing. “Like they don’t know where we are anyway? At least if _everyone_ knows then we’re all on the same playing field, right?”

Whatever she is outside the battlefield – which more often than not is a pain in his ass, she isn’t _stupid_ , nor is he enough of a jackass to act like he doesn't know it. She was born into a world that was already falling to fucking pieces, and had seen more in her supposedly-tender years than a lot of people would in a lifetime.

                “And besides,” she’d added like if she had a box to climb on top of and continue lecturing him from there’s no doubt she would. “We’re still alive, aren’t we? If the bad guys wanna come and do something about that – _bring it_. I’m not scared of dying.”

No wonder she hits the self-destruct button on those damn expensive machines like a gameshow contestant: watching everything around her explode _is_ her normal, and she’s made it perfectly clear whose hand she prefers slamming the button.

                 “You should be,” he’d growled, lacking anything else smarter to say and muttering as he stomped back down the hallway he came from, “I’d know.”

But that isn’t how it works, no one with a deathwish started caring about whether they lived or died because some torn-up old soldier told them so. She keeps flying across the battlefield like she’s ready to hit that goddam button regardless of whether she’ll get away in time – even though she always did, _just_ , even if it meant barrelling into him at what felt like 100mph and throwing them both behind a road block as the blast singed the top of his hair off. Bald jokes for _weeks_ after that – and she’d grinned like a sycophant about it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he retorts ankle-deep in snow Mei had championed a three-day marathon to lay down, arms crossed as he glares at the feet swinging slim inches away from his head, candy-cane striped socks that run over the knee and out of sight over the edge of the crate.

“Thought you weren’t gonna show up,” she replies. “You’re the last one to arrive, you know.”

“Who’s counting?” he comes back snappishly; full of Christmas – sorry, _Snow Festivity_ spirit.

“Me,” she counters belligerently, drumming her heels against the crate until he wants to grab an ankle and hold her still for a damn second in her life.

“Says the person who didn’t show at any of the meetings,” he mutters, and _yes_ , he was counting. After half-expecting her to be at the forefront of the board-room battlefields, she never graced any of the increasingly large spaces they’d had to book with her presence – only one on the team not to show up at all, which included those who’d legally changed their names in order to join the final meeting as _entertainment manager_ only to discover every ‘festive dancer’ in the city had been mysteriously sent on a paid spa day. She must have had better things to do, he imagines – like the goddam rest of them.

“That stuff’s so boring,” she dismisses. “Everyone fighting about all the little things instead of just _doing_ it already.”

He chuckles, leaning back on the boxes she’s perched on top of and gazing out across the room through the ever-present tint of his visor; after all the noise about the booze budget, just about everyone had shown up with a side-supply, and the liquor is certainly flowing. Mei and Zarya appear – at least from a distance – to be having a heated argument and/or drinking contest about the superiority of baijiu over vodka (and vice versa), something that Junkrat is proposing to judge, and nothing good is on the cards when people get into that rotten stuff.

“What’s so funny?” she demands, stopping the bang of sneakers against the crate; he knows a hothead when he sees one, had known it from the first time they met, though they’d recruited her anyway. _‘She’s too young,’_ some had protested when her name had been raised, like the best of them hadn’t been her age or younger when they joined. Like she could be young enough to die in war but not to fight in one, as if that made any kind of sense. Besides which they hadn’t drafted her in the first damn place, and her command back home sure hadn’t cared about making soldiers out of kids. They did – and do – whatever they have to in order to stay alive. It makes him nervous every time she’s called back to her home front; good soldiers on the field without him always do.

 “Nothing,” he rumbles, settling that temper like a pot on the boil. “You just ain’t wrong.”

She gives a permissive huff, like he’s gotten away with it on this occasion, and resumes the quiet drumming of her heels against the crate in a way that might send him crazy if he listens to much more of it.

“Anyway,” she starts back up. “It’s people being together that matters, not all the _stuff_ that goes around it.”

Is _that_ what she’s doing, he wonders, waiting by the door to make sure they all showed face – waiting for him?

When she vaults off the top of the box and lands slim inches away from him, his first thought is what she’s wearing is a disgrace: as usual. Candy-cane striped Christmas (Snow Festivity) socks that keep on going _up_ , and she’s challenged as ever to wear shorts that end anywhere decent. The concept of an on-duty dress code is apparently well beyond her off-the-field capabilities. Not that he dares to breathe a word of complaint about their youngest member seeming content to spend the majority of her downtime cycling through pyjama outfits that are cut apart should they not be quite exposing enough and wiping the dust from her eponymous corn-chips on her clothes – the scarce parts of her they _do_ cover – as she wanders around the base like she’s free run of the place. Except commenting on it would suggest it _bothers_ him, which is exactly the last thing he wants anyone thinking. Especially when it does.

“So try to enjoy the party, eh?” She turns to face him so expectantly it almost makes him feel guilty, like he’s kept her waiting all night for a date he’d no idea he’d made.

When she steps forward the only reason he doesn’t take one in the other direction is the immovable pile of boxes at his back, just pressing harder into the crates as she raises a hand and taps her finger on the front of his visor; it’s nothing personal, or nothing _much_ personal – he doesn’t like people getting close in any sense of the word. Not anymore. “Even if we can’t see if you’re smiling or frowning under there anyway.”

Then she saunters away, seeming content now that he’s shown face (figuratively, at least) and leaving him wondering why she of anyone – of all of them – would actually care. Perhaps because she doesn’t know any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talks I had a passing interest in this ship once, couldn't find fics for it (think because I suck at searching because I found some later), but then I saw that it getting called out as one of the top 3 'problematic' ships along with McReyes (ship it) and Shimadacest (okay so one of these things is not like the other) and there's no motivator like SPITE.


	2. Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play 'spot the rare!ships' because this was an exercise in me actually choosing for myself what characters to tease together and well... squint away.

Soldier 76 doesn’t drink – well, he drinks just fine, but not like this. Not where the mask would have to come off in an aircraft hangar full of drunkards who’d be about as good at keeping his identity secret as Winston is at remembering which jar of peanut butter is his (he knows: just pretends not to).

At least he’s not the only one; Hanzo has been kneeling quietly in a corner all evening pouring and drinking endless cups of perfectly stewed green tea from a tiny ceramic teapot – at least when he’s not gazing wistfully at the hard light bar where Symmetra sips virgin cocktails out of a fluorescent blue martini glass pretending not to notice.

Yet the potential for embarrassment in front of peers, superiors, and the entire janitorial staff (who know more than anyone else in the building anyway) hasn’t stopped the rest of them taking to the bottle like they don’t all have jobs to go back to after the weekend. An intense baijiu vs. vodka drinking competition and bilingual argument – as in carried out in two mutually unintelligible languages – has resulted in Zarya proving some latest point by bench-pressing Mei, who doesn’t seem able to stop laughing for enough to make the exercise even remotely functional.

There’s nothing much to be worried about with Angela shooting around, medical kit in one hand and a bottle of wine with a straw in it in the other. The medical community can say what they like about the risks and ethics of her capabilities to practice medicine intoxicated, they haven’t seen her finish a line of shots, climb into a man’s lap and then stitch his lip back together. He still has the scar, though her needlework is so good it’s dwarfed by all the others he’s added to the collection since.

The stress of what they do out there makes for unstable festivities; he knows it well enough, used to be at the forefront of the dumbass brigade himself once upon a time, blowing off steam and thinking he was invincible – until he wasn’t. So there’s nothing about how the mob behaves under the influence that he hasn’t seen before… even when he zeroes in on what can only be Hana (at least with those socks) doing what can only be described as showering Torbjorn’s smooth, waxed forehead with kisses on the far side of the hangar. He’s already a pretty ruddy-faced guy, but if 76 knows him – which he does – then he could be reasonably sure the pint-size softie is blushing hard enough to _glow_.

About as quickly as the strange ritual happens it comes to an end, and she’s weaving off through the clusters of people in a way that looks suspiciously more like an inability to walk straight than a calculated crowd-navigating walk. She passes out of sight as Roadhog ploughs through the crowd in the opposite direction, Junkrat flung over one of his shoulders like an expensive cat that’s blackout-drunk on baijiu – a mistake most people only make once, thinking that cheerful, chirpy Mei chugging merrily away at overproof grain alcohol was indicative of what it did to most other organic creatures. Must be something to do with the cold, he’d sworn right after swearing to _never_ go shot for shot with her again as long as he lives – or had lived according to his death certificate, which he keeps in a desk drawer and stares at from time to time when he’s tempted to throw his hands up and walk away from all this (even if he never does).

The next time Hana comes back into sight is with one arm over Genji and the other over Zenyatta, busy laying a series of sticky lipgloss marks over the latter’s polished head while unusually pixelated sparks fly off it - a worrying sign of badly-coded perception mods. He’s considering if there’s a pattern with bald, shiny heads when she turns from one side to the other and with complete, casual ease presses her lips over a visorless Genji’s. He seems not in the least bit complaintive and looks suspiciously to be grabbing for her ass at the same time, and 76 finds himself staring very quickly and intensely at the ceiling – where it looks like McCree is hanging in a tangle of cargo loading nets. Must have deserved it, he thinks as he looks back down to find they’re mercifully gone.

He’s forced to intervene – not what he wanted, not at _all_ – when he can’t watch Winston trying to gently paw the insatiable Hana Song off him any longer. She races around the big guy’s frame like a ferret, throwing kisses like sucker punches on every corner of his face in a way that’s clearly making him dangerously distressed. Lúcio gets called away from the decks to address the issue, leaving his assistant and part time scratch-deck (Bastion) manning the absurdly oversized rig that the 4th planning committee had deemed absolutely and without question necessary to the correct execution of the party, but his ‘help’ only seems to make things worse. Winston doesn’t take kindly to being wall-run along for any reason, and though Lúcio is fast – somehow she’s faster.

After a full five minutes of the spectacle 76 takes pity and leaves the spot he’s been occupying about three feet inside the door since he got here; it’d be beyond the capabilities of anyone in Overwatch to handle something without his personal involvement at _some_ point in the process.

“Everything all right here?” he delivers reluctantly, sensing that Winston is probably about one banana joke away from losing it.

“Yes, fine,” he replies in a strained voice, shaking his head and making ‘help me eyes’ as he unscrews the cap on a new bottle of Irish Liquor. Hana peeks out from behind the top of his head, and 76 issues a simple instruction that he consciously has to avoid barking at her like the brat she’s behaving like; being nice - it is a party, after all.

“Get down from there, twinkle-toes.”

What he doesn’t expect is to take the full weight – all measly fifty pounds of it, feels like – of her flying at him from the diving board of Winston’s shoulders. He makes a guttural sound when she lands that sounds even worse reverberating through the casing of his mask, taking her ungainly belly-flop onto him on a shoulder and most of an arm. It takes special effort to keep his hand from grabbing anywhere along the candy-striped socks that flail at his side, positioning his arm carefully between her legs as she wriggles over him in some gyroscopic ploy for balance and quite definitely _giggles_ as she does it.

“Hana is just a little… _merry_.” Winston understates while making a subtle ‘thank you’ sign – maybe this favour will keep him off other people’s peanut butter… for a while.

“I can see that,” he retorts, turning to find himself looking at her upside down on his other shoulder. “This what you meant about enjoying the party?” She smiles and shakes her head, hair tumbling in a sheet down past his elbow.

“That was you,” she titters, “ _I_ know how to have fun.”

“I can tell,” he murmurs less sarcastically than intended, then rudely tries to jostle her off his shoulder, only for her to _cling on_ , locking her legs around his arm and squeezing on with impressive strength. “What’s happening here?” he demands like someone else can explain it for him, locking his sights onto Lúcio, who’s now back on the ground and looking thoroughly mortified on her behalf.

“She’s only had three drinks, I swear it!” he belts. “You can ask the bar.”

“I don’t care if she’s drunk the bay of Gibraltar,” he snaps, moving an arm up and down to find she flexes with him without loosening the hold. “Fix it.”

Lúcio edges up to her to and taps tentatively on the back of her head before suggesting, “Hey, D, how’s about getting off 76, huh?” Unfortunately, she just giggles again – something that generates a very compromising set of sensations when she’s insisting on being worn by him like a scarf.

“ _Maybe_ ,” it practically sounds like she snickers, and doesn’t move so much as an inch from her position aside from rising and falling with his shoulders as he takes a deep sigh.

“I’m about to walk outta this party,” he issues bluntly. “So unless you wanna catch a ride to bed then you’re shit out of luck.”

She relaxes, so he assumes with a surge of relief she’s going to release him, only to pick up her head and prop her chin on a hand, elbow pressing into his side like some new interpretation of The Thinker.

“Hmm… guess that’s fine,” she reasons facetiously, and then waves at the others with her other hand. “Bye bye, everyone.”

“N-… okay, whatever,” he grumbles, pivoting so quickly she’d fly off him were she not determinedly coiled around him like a python– though she makes a definite gulping noise that evokes a vindictive and luckily disguised smirk before he marches out of the hangar.

“Open the door.”

“I forgot my code.”

“Open the goddam door, Hana.”

“I told you,” she insists, still strung over 76’s shoulder like he’s running a fireman’s lift taxi service; she’s not the first broad he’s seen out of a place hanging off his arm, though this might be the most literal interpretation yet. “I forgot it.”

“Bullshit,” he calls, and she giggles, stomach fluttering against him in a way that makes him ask himself why he’s even entertaining this nonsense instead of ripping her off him like a band-aid the moment she turned into a human snap-bracelet. Perhaps because it was an excuse to leave – or maybe so he didn’t have to keep watching her playing Overwatch kiss-chase anymore.

“Yeah?” she poses, catching his eye as she picks her head up and gives a single hiccup. “What are you gonna do about it?”

What he could, should, do is dump her in the hallway like a sack of dirty laundry, cut the shit and stop pretending that he’s humouring her for any other reason than a chronic weakness of character on his own part. What he does is sigh and press down the audio input button of her room-entry keypad. Sure, she could voice-activate it in lieu of a forgotten code, but given that he knows she knows her goddam passcode and is messing with him for the hell of it, trying to persuade her to open it by another means is just a time-waster.

“Security override,” he growls into the device. “Access level: Alpha,” he delivers it inconspicuously enough that she might not wonder why some anonymous soldier who didn’t command shit around here would have god-tier security access.

 _“ACCESS DENIED,”_ the pad retorts in a jarring drone. _“VOCAL KEY NOT RECOGNISED. FURTHER AUTHORISATION REQUIRED.”_ He feels her start to laugh before she even makes a sound.

“Shut it,” he growls as she titters at his side, pushing the button back down more forcefully. “Security Override, Authorisation level **Alpha** ,” he repeats irately, and then to the side, “Lousy voice recognition.”

 _“FURTHER IDENTIFICATION REQUIRED,_ ” the pad bleats. “ _PLEASE STATE NAME AND RANK FOR VERIFICATION OF SECURITY LEVEL.”_ This is exactly what he didn’t want, and leaving her in a laundry bag doesn’t seem like such a bad idea – except that it goes against every fibre of his being and upbringing; you see a girl home, the job ain’t done until the door closes with her on the other side it or _so help you_ if her father finds out.

“Strike Commanderjackmorrison,” he snarls into the device, knowing they didn’t work when you punched them broken but being tempted to give it a shot anyway.

_“RECOGITION FAILED. PLEASE REPEAT.”_

“Speak up,” she simpers like a devil perched on his shoulder.

“Thought I told you to shut it,” he snaps, and then with a defeated groan reaches for his visor and clips it off, leaning over the door panel like he’s about to put the moves on it. “Strike Commander,” he says quietly, unaltered by the distortion of the mask that does its job a little too well sometimes, “Jack Morrison. Security level Alpha… now open this goddam door.”

 _“Authorisation accepted,”_ the technology purrs – Athena can be a real screw like that – and the door’s light goes from red to green. He hits the button so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t smash, and takes all of a step into her quarters. It’s not too bad at this end of the room, but the clutter intensifies as it goes and becomes mostly unnavigable from midway across the floor. Of course it’s the exact opposite of regulation, just like her.

“Strike Commander Jack Morrison, huh?” he hears her echo as if she’s trying the title on for herself, and his mask is still in his hand – no point putting it back on now, though. “I had a feeling.”

“Get the hell off me,” he orders, and like he’s unlocked her she slides off him like a fireman’s pole, standing to false attention and giving the sloppiest salute he’s ever seen.

“Yes Mister Strike Commander _sir!”_ she chirps with a look on her face like the cat who ate the canary. Unfortunately – still not what he wants, though in a slightly milder shade – he can’t just walk away from her now, and begrudgingly smacks the button to close the door from the inside, a soft pneumatic shush as it rolls shut behind them. “Uh oh,” she teases, “Am I in trouble?”

“This has to stay between us,” he delivers with a perfect reflection of how calm he isn’t. “You understand, Hana?” It doesn’t feel appropriate to call her anything else at this point – surnames and codenames are for professionals, which – swaying back and forth like she might keel over any moment and peeling back his identity like a sticker on a beer bottle – she’s the farthest thing from right now.

“Why the big secret?” she asks as if it’s anything like her place to question his shitty choices - or lack thereof. “You know most of us have a pretty good idea it’s you, right?” Of course they do, how stupid does she think he is? 

Then between medical records and old soldiers there are a close few he’s never been able to keep it from, who knew the godawful truth moment they set eyes (or eye) on him, and he gets to have that terrible conversation with painful variations each time. He hates it – easier to stay dead.

“You’re not the ones I’m keeping it from,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “Dead men ain’t meant to walk.” And definitely not carry nineteen year old’s back to their rooms over one shoulder.

“Try telling that to half of Overwatch,” she retorts flippantly, and then tilts her head to one side, taking him in with quick movements of those eyes that could read four screens at once and play space invaders on the side – he’s seen it. “It really is you.”

“I know you like to see confidentiality as a challenge,” he remarks coarsely, “but if you don’t keep your mouth shut on this one there’ll be consequences.” These things started small, but if word gets out he’ll have a world of problems he isn’t ready to deal with – might not ever be. Really is better off dead, especially where politics are concerned.

“Ooh,” she practically squeaks. “Promise?”

“Hana,” he emphasises like he’s not negotiating with a teenager (just) and possibly not even winning. She’s going to be a horror once she gets a few more years under her belt – if she can keep herself alive that long. There aren’t extra lives and resets in the real world, as much as she seems to act like a cat with nine lives stuffed somewhere in that jumpsuit.

“Jack,” she counters, and he grimaces before realising that she can see; too used to being disguised. He doesn’t get called by the name he buried all that often, in private and with certain company, yes, but those occasions are predictable - manageable. New people didn’t get to try it on like a new pair of sneakers. “You know,” she remarks, and he can’t work out how drunk she actually is – she seems to pinball between wasted and sober like it’s just another game. “I used to have a crush on you, back in the day.”

He scowls again and doesn’t care if she sees this time; all she does is play fucking games, even now, with him, keying his buttons like the controls of her various machines.

“When was that?” he scoffs; her ‘back in the day’ was probably last Tuesday for him, though he doesn’t like the implications much anyway.

“Back in Korea, when I was still pro,” she counters, a little snippy but still decidedly in the ballpark of winding him up for whatever it is she’s after. Before she was drafted as a soldier for a nation on the verge of collapse. “You were on _all_ the posters.” And had teenage girls crushing on him for it; he knew, nothing new, though not exactly something he’s proud of.

“Good for you, kiddo,” he retorts, and it’s a low blow, but so’s throwing herself around him like a shawl and getting him to out himself because she just _had_ to get under the mask and know for sure who the washed up old soldier who’d let an organisation crumble under him was.

“Hey!” she snaps, wagging a scolding finger at him. “Not cool.” She gets babied, of course she does, who wouldn’t with a face like that? Not to mention trying to _protect_ makes things easier for those among them, those who aren’t naturals to war – not like them. He’d hit the battlefield by her age too, baby-faced and all, but whatever she is off the field – manipulative, too curious for her own good, and a reckless flirt – what she is on it is the great leveller: soldiers.

“If I get up tomorrow and find out you’ve put this online, I will personally smash that thing up with a baseball bat,” he issues, pointing behind her at the garish gaming rig that sits like a neon heart in the middle of the mess.

“Try it, old man,” she spits, making it tit for tat before that pinball ricochets onto the other side of the machine, and she smiles at him in a way that brings up a cold sweat on the back of his neck. “Don’t worry, I can keep a secret… but only if you’ll keep one for me.”

“What?” he bites, though isn’t specific enough about whether he’s asking what she’s doing or what it is, so she makes whatever she wants out of it.

No sooner has he finished the word than she flings herself at him – _again_ – and even with the reaction time to be holding her at arm’s length by the throat if he wants to, he doesn’t do shit. He’s too tired to fight for the hell of it, not with so many battles out there that actually matter, and deep down knows that she goes after whatever the hell she wants and gets it - regardless of whether he or anyone else likes it or tries to stop her. _‘Don’t press the button, Hana’_ meaning ‘ _definitely do press it’_ every single time.

This time she hangs her arms around his neck, the rest of her clapping against his chest like a tyre swing banging off a tree trunk as she throws herself against him mouth-first. It’s almost impressive she makes it – he’s a head and a half above her at least - but then her legs wrap around his waist and then lock, sitting comfortably at a level to make him feel thoroughly amoral. He sure as hell doesn’t reciprocate, but he also doesn’t shove her off, waiting it out until she leans back and takes a good look at him with a hint of teeth behind the outright mischievous grin. She’s been smooching her way around the team all evening – some game, he’s no doubt, and tells himself it isn’t personal. Not for her, at least.

“You done?” he asks gruffly, the weight of her locked around him less than one of Amari’s purses (always stuffed full of too much ammo) and she pouts, probably expecting a rise out of him that’s not coming - that storefront’s long been out of business.

“Almost,” she says quietly, and the vindictive, button-smashing antagonism fades away like snowmelt, leaving behind big brown eyes and a look about as raw as anyone in her time and place could be. Holding onto the gaze like hair slipping through his fingers, he gets as far as wondering what’s gotten into her when she ducks back in to kiss him again – this time softly, in a way that’s not a game, more like a girl with a crush on a man from a poster. Without considering it he lays a palm to her side, matching the curve of her ribcage just in case he has to push her away – even though he doesn’t.

 “There,” she issues with a breathy tone as she pulls back, and in case he’s even thinking about saying something lays a finger over his lips. “I won’t tell anyone about you, if you don’t tell anyone about that.”

Not gonna be a problem, he thinks without being able to say – not with the pad of her fingertip still pressed firmly over his mouth, which is a poor substitute if he allows himself to think about it (he doesn’t). Finally she unhooks her ankles behind his back and slides off him, emphasis on the _slide_.

Imbued with permission to speak again, he’s only got one word for her, but it’s all he needs before getting the hell out of there to clear his head and tell himself there’s nothing else he could’ve done – that it was all her.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins...
> 
> *Pulls chain on the trash ship whistle*


	3. Emergency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another update! This one isn't as long as the last couple of chapters (sweet mercy) (not that Mercy).

Even though Jack Morrison, isn’t in charge anymore and doesn’t want to be (not sure he ever did with what it cost him), that doesn’t stop him using his never-revoked admin access to monitor Overwatch’s digital traffic. Just because he can’t have his hands on the reins doesn’t mean he’ll take his eyes off the horses. Not when everything got so royally fucked up the first time round.

He watches for the cracks he should’ve noticed a lifetime ago but never stopped for long enough to pay attention to – or listen to the people telling him to look for them. Let the foundations crumble because he was too busy trying to do everything – even when it was two and a half jobs more than any one person should’ve had – and by the time it became obvious even to his three-hours-of-sleep-a-night deranged self it’d all turned into sand underneath them.

This lingering habit is why he finds out Hana Song is being temporarily recalled to her home front. Probably before she even does, locked up in a multi-million subscriber livestream from the rig that no one had needed to smash up with a bat, because contrary to his fears she’d kept her lip buttoned and not breathed a word of his identity – at least as far as he’s been able to tell.

What’s more surprising is that _she_ doesn’t tell anyone about the recall, and further to it spends every waking moment after the message lands mouthing off about some gaming tournament ‘back home’ that she’s absolutely got to go and defend her title at.

            _“It’s a grudge match, yanno?”_ she says over laughs and ribbing for skipping out on the rest of her squad. Allows everyone to think she’s going rogue or getting special treatment for being a celebrity, even though he’s read the summons and knows things are bad with a capital everything.

As the days and then hours tick down until her early-morning aircraft leaves the hangar, he doesn’t do any of the things contemplates over long nights scrolling endless windows of text – like asking her why she’s lying to them as she sticks her neck out for her country because they yelled jump and she’s still young and naïve enough to ask how high. Doesn’t tell her to be _careful_ and not to fight out there the way she does back here, where the best handful of soldiers and medics he’s ever known are on call to make sure she doesn’t get herself into something she can’t get back out of. How it’s all well and good thinking you’re invincible regardless of who’s at your back, until you fuck up and there’s no one else there and you realise shit, that’s what they were talking about.

He tries to keep it at bay; let her go make her stupid goddam judgement calls, like thinking it’s easier for anyone except herself to keep them in the dark. Except whatever she is on the battlefield – which is fearless to a goddam fault – she’s being a coward because it _is_ harder to let people worry when they’ve every right to do so. Makes it more real, seeing the fear in their eyes. But he’s never known anyone with a rock-solid head like hers to be told, so he _almost_ lets her get away with it, because he knows that she’s not going to listen anyway.

Except the day arrives and he’s waiting by the hangar half an hour before she shows up – which is half an hour _late_ – not that anyone else is getting on the plane, so they’ll wait as long as they have to until their precious cargo is on board.

“Spose I shoulda figured you’d know,” she remarks, ambling up to him with her hands stuffed into a sports jacket and were those _real_ combat pants? Maybe she _could_ wear a uniform, or part of it at least. “Strike Commander.” He could scold her for the address, but it’s the crack of dawn and he’s only wearing a scarf and not a mask, so he’d be a damned hypocrite. Moreso than usual.

“Suppose you think it’s easier not telling anyone why you’re going,” he retorts without it really being a question.

“They’ll only worry.”

“Because they have a reason to,” he asserts. “What happens if you don’t come back?”

“I’m coming back,” she dismisses. “Honestly, this is why I didn’t say anything.” It _would_ be a touch crowded with the rest of Overwatch here, he can appreciate, but it’s not really the point.

“Be careful,” he delivers the piece he’d swore he’d leave it at, even if it’s never enough. “Remember who’s behind you before you decide to do something stupid.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she cuts defensively.

“That you’re only as good as your backup,” he replies. “Which isn’t going to be on par with us.”

“Hey!” she snipes, and he can’t tell if she’s playing or really offended. Keeping him guessing is her side-job, he’d swear. “Just because we’re not all _Jack Morrison_.”

“Jack Morrison died because he went in somewhere he shouldn’t have without his team,” he bites, a breath catching in his chest as he tries futilely to counsel her from making his mistakes.

“Well you look all right to me,” she slurs in a way that he could be crazy enough to think is flirting, messing with his head even more than she does already. “What’s that bit you always use? _Old soldiers never die?”_ That she delivers it with a straight face and a wry hint of impersonation is almost hilarious, if it didn't seem like she actually believes it in spite of all her fragile years.

“Yeah,” he delivers. “So watch your back out there.” Because she’s not going to have anyone else – like him – to watch it for her.

“This is _my_ fight,” she declares with familiar possessiveness, because he knows what it’s like making your war into a person. Except wars didn’t go down as easily as tiny slips of a girl popped out of their MEKA; they weren’t people, couldn’t be reasoned with like them, and don't give a fuck who thinks they’re invincible, knowing better that everyone – _almost_ everyone – can die. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Would you just…” he cuts himself off knowing it’s pointless. “This is why I wasn’t going to come." He gives a sigh that wonders what he really thought he’d achieve coming down here at the crack of dawn to try and impress a fear of death upon her – like the advice would stick this time for some unknown reason that all the others before had missed.

“Then why did you?” He hates what he says next, especially because it’s the truth.

“In case you don’t come back,” he answers solemnly. “Every soldier deserves a send-off.”

“I’m _coming back_ ,” she repeats with that undefeatable confidence youth preserves so well.

“Sure,” he settles, wanting to believe it even knowing it makes no difference. It’s always a shock when someone goes out full of life and mischief and comes home in a box. Even at his age it’s never gotten any easier. “Just… take care.”

“Aye aye, mister Strike Commander,” she mocks, zipping into the shoddiest salute he’s ever seen in his life – enough to draw a muffled laugh out of him.

She’s a ham like he was once, making sure everyone in the squad had a smile on their face so he didn’t have to see their fear and think about what they were scared of, wisecracking right until he ran straight down the line of fire. Making sure if anyone was out to get killed in action doing something incredibly risky (namely, stupid) it better be him and no one else. His c/o had a hell of a time keeping him from… never mind.

“You better get on that plane, soldier,” he remarks far more joke than order. “You’ve already missed the last three ATC windows.”

“Yessir,” she quips, dropping the ramshackle salute and starting to walk away from him, though doesn’t get more than a few steps before she starts to backtrack, reversing around the corner and looking around like she’s got an eye out for trouble. “Actually,” she starts drawling, “now that you mention it…”

“Mention wha-” is as far as he gets before she’s slipped fingers past his scarf into the collar of his undershirt and yanked him by the throat down to the level of being kissed by her; a brief, surprising affair that he lets happen because he’s yet to develop the habit of stopping her.

He’d done so well at convincing himself _other_ time was some freak event, a drunken bolt of overenthusiasm and chain-yanking that would to slip away as quickly and quietly as she’d let go his real identity. Except she hasn’t forgotten any of it, just keeps it under wraps like he’s not the only one who has things to hide.

He realises what this must look like to anyone of sane mind and bolts upright, pulling away from her in a way that he’s absolutely certain she disapproves of. Not least because of her fat-lipped pout, which he has to look away from before he loses the cool he never had in the first place.

“You don’t have to freak, there’s no one watching.” She checked, of course.

“Why?” he asks in the simplest terms possible; all he can manage through a discomfort far too complex to risk delving into.

“In case I don’t come back,” she explains like it should be obvious, rolling her eyes at the pained expression she leaves on his mouth – along with some lip gloss.

“Thought you were?” he replies like the next string of words out of his mouth shouldn’t have been _‘what the hell do you think you’re doing’_ quickly followed by a rundown of the list of reasons she shouldn’t ever do it again – one of them being because might start enjoying it if she’s not careful.

“Ya got me,” she admits, eyes creasing as she smiles and holding up her hands like he could put her to the wall with them to be charged with reckless temptation of a man who’s supposed to be dead. “Maybe that crush isn’t such a used-to, huh?” Then adding insult to injury, as if his heart hasn’t taken enough of a pounding already in its tired years, she dots a couple of fingers to her lips, ferrying them across the space between them to press against his mouth. “But… just in case anyway,” she says, holding the touch like maybe, _just maybe,_ he’s gotten through to her in some small way, lasting all of a moment before she snaps back to the same cheerful mask. “Seeya, Jack,” she chirps, fingers fluttering away to twirl at him as she saunters off, cascade of hair pouring straight down her back.

He forgets about 30 years of his life, like she can reach out and coax him through the decades on a couple of slim little fingers, when he calls out to her like he’s got any right or sense to spare.

“Watch your ass out there, short stuff.”

She throws a look over her shoulder that he’d put a frame around before stuffing guiltily under the corner of his mattress.

“Why?” she poses coyly. “When you’re so good at doing it for me?”

He finds himself hoping as the jet finally takes off – delayed by him as much as her in all honesty – that she comes back exactly the same, even though he knows deep in his gut that it’s not going to happen. Never does.

More than that, he hopes she comes back at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Stares into the camera and unblinkingly reaches to pull the chain and start flushing the angst drain*


	4. Graveyard Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was an interesting challenge trying to work out angles for the prompts that fed into a story that had like... any continuity at all... some of the ideas I had that had to be shoe-horned into a prompt (like the party: wasn't that fun? NOW ANGST), but then others are *from* the prompts. This was a good example of the latter (I think) but then turned into a fairly significant theme/aspect of the story that I'm very fond of, so... go shipping weeks?!
> 
> *Rambling A/Ns over*

Hana Song returns unexpectedly in the middle of the night, aboard a cargo aircraft that she’s not supposed to be on, into an airstrip on the other side of the rock. Overwatch isn’t meant to be getting its youngest member back until the end of the week, and probably doesn’t yet know that they are; everyone sensible is surely asleep as the ghost of Jack Morrison combs the late-night chatter on insomniac nights, catching the notification about two hours before it lands. She’s on a routine shipment that’s got nothing to do with them, practically hitches a ride by the sound of it– _‘D.va from Overwatch on board – no passenger space but insisted on riding in the back. Apologies to the port authority.’_

It doesn’t add up, but even without the suspicious last-minute change in plans it goes without saying that he gets in a car and drives across the city in the dead of night to be there when she shuffles off the back of the aircraft looking like heaven and hell have been rolled through a ditch. He’s leaning against the bonnet of the car with his arms crossed over his chest, so relieved she’s not on a stretcher he can hardly speak.

“Shoulda figured…” he can just make out her murmur; she’s travel-dirty, hair stuffed into a bun on top of her head and what looks uncannily like a uniform that hasn’t been washed since the battlefield, jacket hanging from one hand like it’s about to fall out of her fingers and plenty of stains, some the iconic brown-red of blood, on the once-white tank top.

“Welcome back,” he says lamely, and knows just by looking at her that there’s nothing else worth saying, so picks himself up off the hood and turns around “Let’s go.”

She slumps into the back seat and stares out the window without making a sound; he’d kill to know what happened, but her command back home keeps its news tightly controlled unless it’s the good kind, and her face doesn’t look anything _like_ good news. He even checked her goddam social media while she was away, only to find a beautifully executed fairytale that sells the lie just like the pro she is.

Lone streetlights are sliding past them on an empty road when she announces, “I just buried my best friend.” His hands tighten around the steering wheel as he remembers what invariably happens when he gets what he wishes for.

“Shit,” he breathes, and without deliberation starts pulling the car over.

“This better not be where you say I told you so,” she remarks vacantly from the backseat as they roll to a stop.

“No,” he responds, and no sooner has he turned off the engine than he’s turning around and climbing between the seats, lurching with a frame that’s definitely nowhere near as flexible as it used to be as he crawls into the back of the car with her and thumps into the seat across from her.

She’s got her feet curled up, arms wrapped around them looking pitifully small – while there’s nothing anyone can say that makes what she’s going through hurt less, he knows it better than most, he tries anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” she muffles into the arms as she’s buried her face in, looking very much her age and heartbreakingly nostalgic. “You didn’t know him.”

“I know what it’s like,” he replies.

“Stop it!” she snaps, picking her head up to glare even through the tears in her eyes. “Do you have to know _everything?!”_ she begins unloading, and this is why he climbed back here; he knows that round’s gotta be fired sooner or later, so better him, here, than someone and somewhere else - or worse yet on the field. “Why did you come? I didn’t ask you to!”

“I was… worried,” he bears out; the last thing she needs now is to be bullshitted, so he gives her the awkward truth. “I have been.” _Worrying_ – since the goddam moment he left, more than he knows he needs or ought to.

“Well it wasn’t me who got killed!” she bursts, scrubbing tears from her face like she can turn them off even as the waterworks keep flowing. She makes an awful gasping sound that’s like a half-swallowed sob, still trying not to lose it even as he watches her fall apart. “Are you happy?!”

“No, Hana,” he answers brokenly. “Of course not.”

Then she’s launching clear across the car and hitting him like a round to the chest, face pressed to his shirt and arms tight around him. _There it is_ , he thinks with godawful recognition, but doesn’t breathe a word, just holds firm as she shakes and waits for her to sob it out. He’s seen all kinds of reactions in his time, has gone through the catalogue himself to boot, so isn’t all that surprised when her balled fist slams into the hollow of his shoulder even as she’s still heaving against him.

“I know,” he says under a breath, hardly thinking about it; trying not think about anything, especially not how his hand almost spans her back as he lays it flat against her. She hits him again before lifting her face to his; red and puffy-eyed, no one looks like a movie star after sobbing their eyes out – not even movie stars.

“Why’d you always have to be so _reasonable_?” she accuses in a way that’d be funny if it wasn’t so sad, blotting her face with the ball of her hand like she’s coming and going at the same time. “Couldn’t you just be wrong for once?”

“Sorry,” he repeats, and she almost hurts him with the next pound of her little fist against his chest. Her grouping is pretty good.

“And stop fucking apologising,” she demands, stretched out over the gulping sobs of someone trying to do too many things at once. Like grieve and do _anything else._ Her fist slams into him again and at exactly the same time she – and this one does surprise him a little more, though it’s not the first time either – lurches in to kiss him. In about the time it takes for her to cause a mild tingle in the hollow of his shoulder she’s full-on crawled into his lap, changing from the ungainly sprawl over it as she’d spring-launched herself at him and sliding her knees either side of his as she kisses him like anyone who wants to feel alive would.

“Easy,” he manages around a mouthful of her lips, setting hands on her waist as he guides her gently away – _away,_ not down, because the last thing he could do with is her pressed down over his lap making even more of a beautiful mess of herself. “That ain’t gonna help.”

“The hell would you know?!” she spits, tightening an arm around his neck and looking at him so close he can barely focus.

“You think I haven’t been there too?” he replies just about on top of her, and to hell if it’s easy to stay on topic with her hanging up and over him in a dirty tank top. He closes his eyes and reminds himself all the many, _many_ decades between them, and that she’s only doing this because he’s here – grabbing for whatever she can. “Don’t do something you regret just to make sure you can still feel.” Hell knows he’d done it enough, and feeling regret didn’t prove shit anyway. What good was it, if you couldn’t feel anything else?

“For fuck’s sake, Jack!” she bolts, making him actually _wince_ as she slams him right in the slow-build bruise she’s beating into him. “Are you trying to make me feel better or not?”

“Yes, but-” he hesitates, edging her back with an undeniable ache in the spot of his shoulder she’s intent on tenderising, “I’m old enough to be your…” Fuck, which one even was it? Doesn't bear thinking about. “I’m too old.”

“Well my friend was twenty and now he’s gonna _stay_ twenty,” she rails. “So what fucking difference does it make? At least you’re still here.” She flags as it all comes crashing back down – oh he recognises those waves – and sinks onto him; not great, but also marginally better than actively trying to suck face with him.

“You’re still here,” she repeats weakly, head drooping onto his shoulder, and he can get by comforting her even while she straddles his crotch. Crying girls aren’t one of his kinks, so he just lays a hand lightly on the back of her head – least she’s not hitting him anymore – and stares out the window as she soaks a wet patch into his shirt, like his heart can actually bleed for her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the shortest chapters, but gotta keep it... sad and sweet... I guess?
> 
> *spins in circle while being sucked down angst drain with a party hat on*


	5. Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter has explicit content, check the updated tags for specifics but basically, sexual stuff happens (tho not sex).
> 
> It was always gonna be this way...

They don’t talk about it – about anything, as a matter of fact – not about the party, the hangar, the car or things that’ve happened at or in _any_ of them; definitely not the way his eyes follow her around a room like he’s obliged never to take them off her, or the fact that she looks for him sometimes when they’re in the field, even just during exercises. Checking he’s there, rather than seeing herself and the enemy alone on a 2D plane of existence.

They don’t even talk about whether she should _be_ on the field at all, if she needs to not be at war for long enough to grieve before she goes out and risks losing it all again. Except he’s the only one who knows and who the hell is he? Officially, at least.

Everyone else just congratulates her on the triumphant win in a tournament she didn’t even play in – not recently, at least. The footage released as live is clearly older than that, but who’s paying attention? It’d only take one person needing to notice _anything_ , but if they do then no one says shit – and what would they have to ask about? Aside from the textbook of shit that’s grieving while trying to remain functional, the odd one-sided kiss and an occasion of non-sexual lap-sitting, there’s nothing to talk about. He tells himself.

Then he’s in his room minding his own damn business when his door goes off – rather than knocking someone’s just trying random codes in the keypad. He’s irate by the time he’s on his feet, snatching his visor off the vaguely-comfortable couch and holding it in one hand as he leans into the viewfinder to check who’s there. _Oh shit_ , is the gut reaction, mask landing on the couch as he throws it down and opens it up.

She’s standing there in an oversized t-shirt with the shoulders hacked off and what he assumes – cause he can barely fucking see them – are PJ shorts, a headphone hanging out of one ear and some handheld dangling from her fingers.

“Yeah?” he says, hesitant glances down the corridor – like he needs to be seen without his mask chatting to a half-dressed member of the squad young enough to be his daughter (or granddaughter using trailer-trash calculations) during peak room swapping hours in the evening. Of course it happens, with this many adrenaline-ridden or just plain _unstable_ people under the same roof; not something he’s meant to be involved in – that shit’s for the people who can still have a good time.

She doesn’t say anything, just walks in, and it’s nothing like a social visit; she looks as if she’s forgotten how to sleep, and he doesn’t need to ask or look very hard – the less hard he looks the better, in fact – to see something’s wrong. Closing the door behind her, she’s already gazing back at the screen, jaw going as she chews what must be a monster load of bubblegum.

“D’you want something?” he asks for lack of anything else to, and it takes a few moments before she shakes her head. He might ask her what the hell she’s doing here then, but unless she’s sleepwalking – which he’s fairly sure she isn’t – then she came here on purpose, and nothing about it bodes well.

While he’s sure as hell not kicking her out without getting to the bottom of it, she’s barely responding and he knows better than to push too hard too soon, so lets out a quiet sigh and goes back to the couch, slumping down and picking up a handheld of his own – the tablet he uses to trawl an organisation’s worth of data like a shrimping ship looking for sea monsters. He’s not been there a minute when she pads over on feet in trainer socks – they can’t be clean (who walks around in only socks?) – and sits down in almost exactly the spot he occupies, like she simply didn’t notice he’s there already.

She twists sideways across him, wedging herself into space that’s not there between his leg and the side of the couch, doing all kinds of alarming things with friction in the front of his pants as she kicks her socks off (he’s right, they’re _filthy)_ and leans into him a little as she settles and brings the device back up to her face.

“Hana,” he starts with a tone of warning that he can’t help; even though he’s here to help, he’s not… he’s who he is.

“Shut up,” she delivers dead-cold, and for the device in her hands she sure as shit isn’t playing. “I don’t wanna talk.”

“… Fine,” he relents, turning his attention back to the tablet screen he can still scroll with one hand, though filtering through the astonishing amount of junk-mail they get is somewhat harder to focus on now.

“Good boy,” she murmurs distantly, like she’s barely even thinking about it, and it’s _especially_ hard to focus then – at least, on anything that’s what and how in the fuck he ended up with a nineteen year old in his lap with legs from here to the other side of the rock calling him the absolute _last_ thing he feels like.

He stares intensely at the words on the screen in front of him, forces them into his head even if they stop making sense every time she adjusts her weight. It’s hard to say how long it goes on for, but while she comes in coiled tighter than a freshly wound watch, the tension locked up in a tiny spring-loaded frame gradually dissipates, and he very almost gets used to having her there.

At least, as long as she’s not fidgeting like it’s going out of fashion, practically massaging his crotch with parts of herself that start at the thigh and go _up_ ; it’s not the time, will _never_ be the time, and definitely not the place either he tells himself, but there’s a point at which it gets ridiculous – namely, where it’s going to start becoming obvious that he’s not an armchair, because they don’t change shape with time and _rubbing_.

“Sit still or get up,” he shoots hoarsely, choked up by all the things he’s spent the last – Christ, it’s been over an hour – swallowing back. The look she gives him is accusatory to the highest degree, like she can’t believe he’d even dare to speak to her, much less to scold her for starting up an engine from a model they stopped making well before she was born.

She reaches for his free arm, which has been fighting circulation loss stretched along the back of the couch without moving (for lack of anywhere decent to go), and without hesitation bends it to place his hand on a smooth stretch of inside leg. “Make me,” she states and it’s not petty contradiction – more like an order.

It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense – why she’d be letting, much less demanding, he touch her as if it’s anything like a good and not-crazy, not-inappropriate and not-what-the-fuck-are-you-doing idea, but he can’t keep ignoring the fact that she’s here, or that she put his hand where it is, so maybe it’s not totally out of the question to enjoy it a little. Or a lot.

He traces fingertips curiously along the side of her knee and she sighs, shuffling against him and continuing to smash the buttons on whatever game she’s playing – he’s never understood how someone could enjoy simulated battles in between all the real ones, but everyone has their shit. Flexing his thumb over torturously soft skin, when she tries to shift on him again he turns it into a firm grip, hooking fingers into the back of her knee and holding her in place before she takes her ass on a return journey to the other side of his lap and back. He’s only following instructions.

She doesn’t say anything, but does stay still – thank fuck – and smiles into the blue-green glare of the screen that she doesn’t look away from, so he’s no doubt she’s paying attention. He’s watched her make a sandwich without looking up from a screen before. Once convinced she’ll stay put if he lets go, his hand unfurls, shadowing the shape of her knee bent over him as it settles, which is where he’s trying to leave it when she decides to open her mouth again.

“Keep going,” she tells him as if it isn’t an invitation to trouble that neither of them should be dealing in.

“Hana,” he says firmly, and she finally looks away from what she’s doing to grace him with a moment of exasperated eye contact. “What’s happening?” Not just here, although especially here, but also in general – the whole twisted thing.

“Nothing, if you don’t get on with it,” she replies obtusely.

“Not… this,” he more or less strangles. “You okay?” She flicks her eyes back up at him for another moment.

“I said I don’t wanna talk,” she reminds petulantly.

“Tough,” he retorts, moving his hand back to the top of the sofa. He’s not touching anything – no matter how tempting or _soft_ it might be – without being sure she’s got her head on straight; or at least as straight as it’d ever have to be to want that in the first place. If she even does.

She lets out a clearly hyperbolic groan and hits a button that stops the rapid flashing of the screen that lights up her features. “You know when you just… _don’t_ wanna think about it?”

“Yeah,” he responds, and oh boy did he know about that – being so fucking tired of hurting that the only thing to do is just white-noise your brain because at least _nothing_ is better than everything else it’s got on offer; what could’ve been done differently to stop things going the way they did, or maybe just the last thing they ever said in second-by-second recap on permanent loop. But then he never went crawling into the lap of anyone nearly three times his age because he didn’t want to think. Bottle of bourbon suits him just fine. “So why’d you come here?”

“Because I _thought_ you’d understand and not ask questions,” she counters spitefully. Like he couldn’t and shouldn’t have dressed her down with a proper interrogation the moment she got here, not let her get comfortable in his lap and ask her what’s going on an hour and half a hard-on later. “And… you’re the only one who knows about it.”

“I wouldn’t if you’d had your way,” he points out, idle fingers drifting back to the folded peak of her knee and drumming his fingertips over it in case he’s mistaken himself for being in control if he lets up on his instincts.

“Don’t rub it in,” she snaps. “D’you get off on hearing me say you’re right or something?”

“No,” he settles a little too quickly; not that, at least. “I’m just…” wondering what the hell she’s doing, or what she can possibly see that’d make her come to him when there’s a whole base full of doors she could’ve shuffled over to in those once-white socks and curled up on a couch to _not talk_ with, “concerned.”

“I know,” she replies with a little less fight in her. “That’s why as well... you do care,” and he _did_ understand, at least as much as anyone could grasp another’s grief. “Even if you’re kind of an ass about it.”

“If you’d listened to me in the first place-” then she wouldn’t need to go getting her comfort from jaded old men who were better off spying on their old job and having nothing to do with her.

“I don’t wanna hear it, _Strike Commander,_ ” she grinds out, a caustic reminder of what he’s not more than what he is, which is the guy whose lap she’s sitting in and not much else. “Either you wanna help or you don’t, so which is it?”

“You know which,” he answers quietly.

“Good,” she settles. “Then do as I say and it’ll be fine.”

“Will you?” he presses like she can have the answer to something as huge as that – as if he’s not just trying to satisfy his own bottomless insecurities.

“I don’t know!” she evades irately, and though he knows it doesn’t get any easier, it does at least get less – eventually. “I’ll have to be, won’t I?”

“Yeah,” he admits; soldiers didn’t get much in the way of options. You were okay and you kept fighting, or you weren’t and maybe you kept going anyway – til you broke. “Sorry.”

“That’s better,” she slurs appreciatively, then hits the button that starts the game back up, tinny sound effects just detectable through the single earpiece that hangs down her front. “Now I thought I told you to keep going.”

“Hana,” he repeats warily, and she drops the gamepad from her face with a look like hellfire.

“What now, Jack?!” she belts, throwing names down as if to see how he likes it. “Do you want me to go?” Throws him up against it, because she’s never had much time for doing anything except flying right into someone’s face and getting straight to business.

“No,” he admits with a swallow, hand feeling increasingly warm against her knee. “Not really.”

“Right,” she affirms, and he can’t hide behind martyr-like concern anymore; it’s _do_ or _don’t_ , not sit with the girl in your lap bleating the same thing over and over like there’s a hidden answer that’ll stop him feeling like a sleaze. There’s no ‘get both’ scenario in this one: he gets to feel morally coherent or _her_. “So do as you’re told and stop fucking going _on_ at me.”

He’s either a weak or terrible man (most likely both) because he doesn’t ask for any more than that – what else is he supposed to do? – and instead spreads his palm out across the width of her leg, tracing careful fingertips for the softest flesh of her thigh before slowly starting to move up – or down, depending on the perspective.

She lets out a sigh he could interpret as relief but doesn’t react otherwise, not that it’s really of much concern to him, plenty occupied with trailing his hand further up her leg, watching the lights of the screen reflecting off her eyes through her eyelashes before drawing his own to the crotch shot he’s been conspicuously pretending not to notice up until this point.

He sets down the tablet that’s suddenly become a terrible nuisance in his other hand, and reaches carefully to draw back a curtain of hair hanging between him and the side of her face, slipping over his fingers as he tucks them behind her neck. Things he’d thought about _not thinking_ about doing – or had tried to, for all the good it’d done.

“Tell me when you want me to stop,” he says throatily, hand reaching the top of her thigh and slipping around the inside of her leg to rake his fingertips over the swell of her ass. This has got to be a terrible idea, he reasons. Real shame he’s not doing anything about it – not unless he’s told.

“ _If_ I want you to,” she corrects with about half her attention in place, rest funnelled into her game – the digital one, at least. “Little to the right.” 

A breath goes out of him like she’s hit an air-lock release, and he tilts his face forward, bringing him flush with the side of her face as his hand shifts inside the baggy PJ shorts that do a mediocre job at getting in the way. She’s not wearing underwear, so his fingers dip straight into the hollow where her thigh unquestionably ends, coarse hair and damp heat coming off her as one corner of her mouth lifts.

“Good,” she assesses quietly enough that he needs to be wrapped around her like a strait jacket to even hear, “but you can do better, can’t you?”

He makes a guttural noise that’s something between affirmation and a moan, and unable to get any further to the right without being dead-centre, uncurls his fingers to reach right into her. “Fuck, you’re wet,” he mutters almost involuntarily.

“Less talking, more-” she cuts off as he moves his whole hand to push the tip of his middle finger through her folds and drag it firmly up over her clit, and though the screen in her hands carries on flashing incomprehensible shapes, she’s stopped working the controls – at least temporarily. “ _Good boy,”_ she enthuses with a tone that’s a hotline straight to filth, and he mouths the space under her ear.

“Yeah,” he groans against her, and then does it again. She moves her hips, adjusting her position to angle into him rather than shifting purely for provocation – no doubts about it now, that’s _exactly_ what she was doing.

She keeps playing the game, which is fine by him, see how long she can keep concentrating as he takes slick fingertips on an exploratory tour of duty around her pussy, reading her reactions like picking up memos – though he’s not yet sure what his level of access is yet.

“Like that,” she feeds back when he rolls her under a fingertip, practically frictionless against him – to the point where it becomes too much, so he draws back to grab a firm handful of her ass, wet streaks following his fingers as he dries his hand on her and then pulls the immodestly narrow crotch of those shorts even further to the side.

She never turns her head away from the screen, but does let him tilt it to one side, stretching out her neck so he can drag his lower lip along it, tip of his tongue dipping into the hollows of her throat for a taste of off-sweet skin. She lifts her hips to push against him, and as the volcanic pressure on his crotch lifts he takes his hand from her neck and reaches underneath her, tugging awkwardly at his fly until he straightens out the erection she’s been kneading since she sat down. Then he lets her back onto him while reaching up and under the oversize t-shirt that hangs off her tiny frame, wrapping an arm easily around her to squeeze a breast that neatly fills his hand as he keeps working the other between her legs.

 _Now_ he’s getting her attention, fingers circling in on a nipple and her clit respectively – such a little thing, practically weightless against him, especially as she digs her heels into the sofa and keeps pushing up into him; her hands stay tight around the console, but it seems kinda like she’s slamming the same button over and over again, muscle memory for itchy fingers rather than anything she’s concentrating on. All the while her hips inch higher and higher, pressing back against his arm until she’s hovering over his lap rather than on it.

“Yeah,” she more or less gasps, followed by a needy, “That’s it.” As if _that_ doesn’t fuck him up in several different directions, or so he thinks until she pants, “Put a finger in,” and he realises exactly how screwed he really is. He teases different fingertips against her hole in a game of his own until she starts making high-pitched protestant noises, settling on the middle as he turns his hand over and then slides through wet heat up to the first knuckle.

There’s a soft thud as the handheld hits the other armrest of the couch, and as the screen keeps flashing pointlessly at the ceiling her hand slips in just above his, taking over where he left over as he slowly pushes deeper.

“Good, just like that,” she delivers with a shudder, two fingers making quick motions over her clit as he pulls his finger back and fucks her a little faster, shorts bunched up in the junction of her leg. He can feel the damp spot against his crotch where he’s all but leaking through his clothes, but he’s run out of hands so settles on guiding her back down on top of him, taking advantage of the give in her ass as he grinds against her. She makes a drawn-out sound, pushing on his cock and hand respectively, running low on words until the three most important bubble out of her between deep breaths.

“I’m gonna come.”

He keeps going as she shakes and makes a noise that he’s going to have a hell of a time forgetting, only slowing his hand with hers, and then like some chronic afterthought, leans into her neck to close his lips against it while she heaves a sigh like being exorcised.

“Mm… good job,” she simpers with a teasing wiggle, and maybe he is about ready to pass out from blood loss, but it’s not an order so he’s unclear on what to do next. Or in general, for the rest of his life.

“Yeah?” he says instead – just about the only fucking word left in his vocabulary at this point.

“Yeah,” she echoes back in a way that might be mocking, twisting her legs as she wipes her fingers on her shirt straight across her tits, and then more or less _bounces_ on him. “Now what about you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says like he hates himself – which he does of course, but this isn’t about him. It’s not like she owes him anything.

“Oh I’m not worried,” she retorts playfully, stretching like a cat before rolling over his chronically throbbing erection as she reaches across the couch for the handheld, resting on her elbows as she slides onto her stomach. “But you can cum on my ass if you like,” she says with a rock from side to side, and if _that_ isn’t an offer he’s far too out of his head to refuse.

“Yeah, alright,” he slurs with groggy lust, turning around shoving a hand into his pants and pulling clothes down far enough to get his cock out by the time he’s on his knees behind her. She’s already keyed back into her game, legs bent up on either side of him as he clenches his other hand over one globe of her ass and pulls the pitiful shorts up higher.

It’s not exactly about to take long, going from nought to a hundred and fucking sixty in a few hasty tugs. But even jerking himself like it’s about to get outlawed, when she – without looking around – sweetly comments, “That’s a _good boy,”_ every thought in his head drains rapidly out of his cock, coming in a couple of hot streaks over her bare thighs and ass (still got good aim), before sinking back on his heels to contemplate what a royal fucking mess he’s made of things this time.

“Take a picture,” she delivers into the haze in a way that he thinks has to be a mockery.

“What?” he dares to say, instead of stumbling straight into the apology that he’s almost on the point of bringing up like acid reflux.

“I wanna see, take a picture,” she repeats impatiently more than anything, and he suddenly realises she’s not joking.

“Uh… okay,” he fumbles, erection drooping out of his pants as he casts around and spots the tablet he pretty much just left on the floor.

“C’mon already,” she hurries when he apparently takes too long to half-blindly thumb through applications before bringing up the camera and snapping what might be the most morally condemning picture he’s taken in his life – at least definitely on that device. But goddam if she doesn’t look good.

“… Here,” he offers pretty awkwardly for a man who just jerked it over her – literally – as he holds it out where she can see. She looks away only briefly before turning back to her own device.

“Nice,” she comments, and then adds, “One more.” To his surprise she turns over her shoulder when he proceeds as instructed, throwing up a couple of fingers in a v with a wickedly cheeky grin as he snaps another, flipping it around for her approval before she gives a decided nod and turns back to her game. “Send them to me,” she requests detachedly as he finally stuffs his dick back in his pants and gets up, heading to the bathroom to retrieve a wet flannel and clean her up.

“What kinda trouble you trying to get me into?” he replies in a low tone, making her jump as he sweeps the cool washcloth over the sinful stretch of smooth skin he just defiled in a wholly inappropriate way. Shame it felt so fucking good.

“Don’t be paranoid,” she retorts cheerfully, and if nothing else her mood has picked up. He doesn’t really feel much better about what happened, but is at least glad she seems… happier, even temporarily. “Not like you’re in them.”

“They’re taken on my device,” he points out – not even his, Overwatch’s, technically, and if he can use five-year old security access to get into their files then it’s not out of the question that a couple of filthy-ass photos could be traced back to him. Hell, someone could just see them by mistake – he sure as shit ain’t deleting them, to say nothing of what she – internet superstar – plans to do with such rocket fuel for the spank tank. He’s pretty sure there’d be a line outside his door of people ready to murder him if it ever got out, and he’d be hard pressed to argue with them about it.

“Relax,” she dismisses, and he’s half-surprised she’s even listening, kicking her feet still sprawled across his couch like it’s the most natural place in the world for her to be. “It’ll be fine.”

He wishes he could believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know fandom has a fondness for an in-charge D.va (who doesn't?) so this is my spin on popular kinks for these two - praise and 'good boy's are kind of throwing in the opposite direction from the whole 'daddy' thing, which I don't mind (within reason) but it's always fun to flip shit around for the hell of it. That and I had the idea for the line and it was so good I couldn't resist.
> 
> Fun fact: this was going to be a 'domestic' chapter in the sense of argument, except things just... didn't pan out that way... heh


	6. Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now return to our regularly scheduled angst-train.

_It’ll be fine_ , she delivers with the absolute confidence of youth – of course it will, because if she can’t imagine something not being fine then hell, it must not be possible.

Only this is exactly the kind of _not fine_ he’s tried to warn her about.

They’re out on operations – no prizes for guessing how much ‘talking’ was done about anything that’d happened after she left. Only change is he ends up jacking off instead of reading on the tablet far more often, though he did send the pictures as she asked – she replied with a string of emoticons and they left it at that. It was a freak occurrence, he tells himself, and not any kind of thing. He’s too old for this shit, and she’s too young for him; even if he finds it even harder now not to stare at her ass as she pads around-base, sometimes even in the same goddam shorts. Catches his eye sometimes, and he swears over his grave (that he visits from time to time) fucking _winks_ at him, luckily he’s got the mask to hide behind so no one notices him looking at her like he’s about to start drooling.

Not now, though, now he keeps his eyes bolted to her because she’s out of her MEKA – too big for these narrow streets – shooting across the alley peppering hotshots like candy into open fire, and he wants to tell her get the fuck _down_ and stop dashing around like bullets are gonna bounce off her – they don’t – but he’s under his own piece of cover trying not to buy a trip into the medical ward _or_ the grave he’s made a habit of being this side of.

It can be undeniably proven she’s not rubber when he watches a shot pull clean through her leg as she tries her famous bounce-around jaunt between buildings and goes down like a rabbit in hunting season. It’s exactly no time before he’s that fucking idiot throwing himself into the open, blasting a rocket and covering fire so no one can finish her off before he drags her the rest of the way to the bolt-hole she was heading for, slinging all the kit-bag weight of her into the shot-out storefront along with his weapon as he fumbles for a biotic pack with one hand and clamps the other down over the rapidly spreading patch of blood creeping across her thigh with the other. She makes an alarmed noise when his grip vices down over her fresh wound, hot blood soaking his glove.

“Suck it up, soldier,” he growls, wadding up dressing in his free hand and quickly lifting the other to check the wound – it’s a flanker, thankfully, and might turn into a nasty fucking scar with the way it’s ripped through the edge of her leg, but anything is better than bones and arteries. “This is what I’ve been talking about.” He pushes back down with the pad and starts wrapping bandages around her thigh, calf propped over his shoulder to keep it up and hands free to work fast – might be awkward if he didn’t have anything else in his mind except fixing this fucking mess.

When she doesn’t answer his alarm bells go up a level, so no sooner has he tied the roll of bandages off and set her leg back down – sorta, in the half-bent over his lap kind of way – than he’s leaning over her, reaching with bloody hands for her colourless cheeks.

“Hana,” he says urgently, “ _Hana_ , look at me.” Her eyes roll open about half-way to gaze at him groggily. She didn’t have any gunshot wounds on her legs last time he checked them, so this must be a first. “That’s right, sweetheart,” he chatters, blurting anything he can think of for the sake of it as he palms blood all over her face. “Eyes open, good girl.” That seems even more effective, something coming back to her expression as she opens her eyes all the way. “There you go,” he encourages, waiting about as long as it takes to check her bleeding before he continues, “What the fuck are you tryin’ to do to me, huh?”

“… To _you?”_ she manages to reply like herself, and he gives a relieved smile that she can’t see anyway.

“Yeah,” he rasps over her, and maybe he’s in trouble. Especially with gunfire hailing down next to them. He looks over, then down to his rifle and finally back to her, also gazing out onto the field.

“You gotta go,” she recognises, coming back into the room as the biotic field releases that airborne mix of painkillers and fuck-knows-what that keeps people going even at times like this, and even starts trying to push herself up. “I’ll-”

“You’ll stay fucking put,” he cuts in, backing away and helping her up, wince tearing across her face as she shuffles to sit with her back to the bullet-ridden wall. This place isn’t secure, so if he doesn’t get out there and keep pushing there’s slim chance of a medic getting through without turning into an emergency case themselves. He takes her hand and lays it over the bandage where blood slowly soaks through and pushes it down, ignoring the hiss and how she screws up her eyes. This isn’t how he wants to see her – not now, not ever, and definitely not as the last time.

Rolling back onto his feet, he unzips his jacket and pulls it off, swinging it around her shoulders as she tilts forwards and pulling it across her, practically drowning in it.

“Okay,” he says, leaning in to press his forehead to hers and shoving aside all kinds of stupid not-now urges about having half his face plated over in metal and glass. “I’ll be back.”

“Just go already!” she retorts, shoving him off with a reasonable amount of strength for a thing of her size with a hole in her leg.

“Atta girl,” he responds, going for his rifle and peering around the wall; situation, not fucking great. Too bad, he thinks with resignation, looking back at her once before he dashes out into the fray – huddled in his jacket, eyes open and staring right at him, _still alive_.

They make it out; just. He fights like a lunatic, firing on cylinders that were thought to be busted a long time ago, and not without shaving a good few years off his pitiful life. Not that it makes much difference – Jack Morrison should’ve been dead by twenty-five if he added it all up – and the big relief is seeing Angela shooting across the field and into the bolt-hole where he’d left Hana wrapped up in his jacket. Even if it only makes him think harder about what happens if she does it again and they’re not there.

As a rule he can’t handle the thought of losing _anyone_ , has never been able to for that matter, but there’s an urgency about it with her – not just the fact that she’s too young for all kinds of things, being a casualty of war one of the first among them, but something that needs burying right at the bottom of the empty grave in front of his tombstone.

 _'You care too much, that’s your problem, Jackie,’_ it’d once been put, and hell if the bastard wasn’t right.

“This appears to be yours,” Angela announces with a swift flick of her eyes when he goes to get cleared before debriefing; they had rules about that now, as it only took so many instances of people passing out with internal – often external too – bleeding during mission debrief while insisting they were fine before something had to be done. He’s not the only culprit, but is admittedly one of the worst. His jacket lies over the folding examination table, courteously wiped clean of blood and probably sterilised to boot.

“Thanks,” he says closed up tighter than a locker that’s been welded shut, picking it up in gloves that aren’t even close to clean.

“You did a decent job,” she issues from behind him, which is definitely not what it feels like. He frowns intensely into his mask, saying nothing until she prompts, “Somesing wrong, Jack?” Of course she knows when anything is off; never fooled for a second when he rocked back up – she’s his goddam doctor after all.

“She’s reckless,” he bites, trying not to be quite so obvious, but then Angela has a diagnostic eye that nothing – physical ailment or otherwise – escapes.

“Yes,” she concedes primly, the scratching of a pen on paper as she signs him off, followed by tearing as she rips away the sheet, holding it out to him as he shrugs back into his jacket and heads back out. “Reminds me of somevone I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short'n'sweet one. Forget war is hell, shipping weeks are hell... one more day to go tho! (And then maybe the bonus chapter I'm working at some point whenever I feel like finishing it).


	7. Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shipping week, more like NEVER AGAIN WEEK.

They're loaded onto different planes back to Gibraltar, she gets sent to the medical ward while he tackles the mountain of paperwork ‘new regulations’ necessitates whenever they so much as fire a bullet, much less hit someone with it. Doesn’t need to see her, he tells himself – might be better that way – because it’s enough that she’s all right. He’ll bury himself in work before he asks himself why it’s so damn important anyway.

He shouldn’t have to do so much reporting – not _all_ of it, alone, every time – but someone has to, and if it’s gonna be done it should at least be done _right_. The rest of the team aren’t as dedicated to accountability like he is; lessons learned from not having a paper trail that’s practically carved into the cliff face.

The next time he sees her is on a screen midway through the paperwork marathon – not _that_ picture - when a message lands one evening a couple days after he gets back. Ignored at first while he finishes a damage report that includes the entry ‘ _wounded: D.va. Gunshot. Upper leg. Non-fatal’_ that even writing leaves a bad taste in his mouth, because as relieved as he is that she’s okay, it’s still not a _good_ thing. She got lucky, but it doesn’t make her lucky.

He finally checks his phone with eyes aching from a combined effort of reading and frowning, surprised by the sender and even moreso when it opens a photo taken from the waist down – clothed, _just_ , and a dressing taped over her leg – lying on her bed with the words _‘aren’t you gonna come see me?’_ captioned across the bottom. He crossly hits the five inputs needed to respond.

 _Why?_ He’s forty years too fucking old for this, yet when a new notification lands moments later he reaches for the phone without hesitation.

_To check if I’m all right._

He grits his teeth and takes several deep breaths. Having read her clearance to return to duty in a week – so long as she stays _inside_ her goddam MEKA – and seeing that she’s discharged herself from the hospital, to say nothing of the fact that she’s taken it upon herself to send him (which begs another reiteration of _why)_ pictures of the evidence, all factors point toward one conclusion. How he filters those complex factors into a response is questionable.

 _You look fine to me_.

 _Come on, Jack._ She comes back with; what a choice of words. He can’t believe he’s even entertaining this ridiculous scenario so _doesn’t_ , leaving his phone… like he’s not going to pick it straight back up when it goes off again less than a minute later; she’s hardly been known for giving up after the first hurdle, and ups the game with her next offer. _I never got a chance to thank you._

 _For what?_ He answers as if he’s really not smart enough to know she’s pushing his buttons to get through to the next level, though the question remains - what _is_ there to thank him for? Saving her neck so she can get it broken another time? Preserving a fantasy of invincibility? He’s made a lifestyle choice out of avoiding responsibility for all the people hurt by the consequences of propping up an unrealistic tale of infallibility.

She responds with a string of digits, which if it’s some new kind of trend or slang is lost on him, so in a demonstration of willpower that he’s sorely in need of he ignores it – or tries to, until the next message arrives.

 _My door code_. _I’ll tell you when you get here._

“Goddamit,” he says out loud to absolutely no one.

Jack Morrison can think of a few ideas worse than going to ‘check’ on Hana in her quarters on a Thursday night after eleven pm – such as the circumstances that begot the collapse of his professional and personal life – but the commonality between all of them is _him_ , and explains how he ends up pacing down the hallway to her room and punching the code into her door, which is about where this whole mess started.

“Wow,” comes her voice from the bed as he takes exactly one step inside the room and closes the door behind him. “You really came.”

“Yeah,” he responds – rather than _‘what did you expect’_ or anything else as accusatory as he’s tempted to offer. He resolved with himself to be nice – within reason - so deigns to ask, “How you holding up?” She’s sharing her bed with a range of empty wrappers, another of those baggy t-shirts so faded the logo on the front is barely visible and a criminally memorably pair of shorts peeking out underneath.

“It fucking hurts,” she replies rather cheerfully all things considered, looking up at him from a mass of pillows with a handheld unsurprisingly in her hands, but more surprisingly it’s unattended in her lap. Then she tilts her head at him and says, “Kiss it better?” like she’s skinned herself during recess and not gotten very, _very_ lucky to only be grazed.

“That don’t work on gunshot wounds,” he growls, and realising exactly what kind of a mistake coming here was starts reaching for the door. “Well you seem fine, so-”

“Wait,” she calls out, and his hand stops midair like he’s still duty-bound to do what she says when it really comes down to it. “I was gonna thank you.”

“Yeah?” he prompts caustically, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall just over the door panel – just in case he needs to get to it in a hurry. “I’m waiting.” She frowns; the first thing she’s done since he got in here that makes him relax - a little.

“Oh… thanks for saving my life,” she runs through it so fast it almost comes out like one word.

“So you _do_ get it,” he remarks sourly.

“Get what?” she retorts.

“That you could’ve died,” he delivers. “So don’t thank me, just don’t make me do it again.”

“Like I got shot on _purpose_ ,” she digs.

“You were asking for it out there,” he snaps, and she _really_ doesn’t like that.

“Hey!” she shoots. “That’s not fair.”

“War ain’t,” he bites. “You know that.”

“Did you come here to _lecture_ me?” she asks belligerently.

“More or less,” he responds about as stubbornly, and she’s clearly not expecting things to have gone this way – as in, not the way _she_ wants – wearing a scowl on that pretty face like he’s just cut the power on her in the middle of a game. “You’ve gotta be more careful, even with us at your back,” he explains as patiently as he’s able to with a chest and stomach trying to outdo each other in the sick and twisted relay. Like a slip of a girl in a flimsy jumpsuit’s too small a target to pick up bullets – she does and _will_ if she can’t get it into her head.

“You sound like my _dad_ ,” she needles, and even though he reckons she says it just to piss him off, hell does it work. “And I’m all right now, aren’t I?” she dares to claim even with a dressing like a dinner plate taped over her. As if he hasn’t heard words just like those out his own mouth plenty of times before; except he’s not and has never been _all right_ when he says he is – usually the exact opposite, in fact.

“What if you’re not so lucky next time?” he poses, ignoring her pot shots because it’s not even close to the ballpark he wants to get into, and is distraction from the very real point he’s trying to make and she’s trying to ignore. That if the bullet she caught had been a little further in then she’d be looking at a lot more trouble than she is now – if he’d even been able to keep her alive long enough for Angela to get in there. He’s seen exactly how long it doesn’t take for someone’s life to pump out their body through a puncture in the wrong place.

“I was born lucky,” she counters playfully, but it’s exactly the kind of shit that gets good people killed. Even though he knows she’s _not_ him and isn’t destined to make his mistakes, it’s still like she’s thrown a can of gasoline over the embers of his temper.

“Godammit Hana!” he bursts, going up in flames as he picks himself off the wall and paces into her room, looking right at her as he burns. “Don’t make me bury you- I can’t…” he cuts off, wrapping a hand over his jaw like he’s got to physically hold the words in so he can make something that’s not a total fucking mess of them.

“What?” she says quietly, like she still doesn’t get it, then pushes harder when he just stands there with a palm over the bottom of his face, missing the mask for once. “What do you mean, Jack?” Like calling him that will make it any easier.

“I don’t wanna outlive you,” he says through his fingers. “I’ve… lost too many.” People he cares about – some maybe a little too much, the undercurrent whispers.

“Is _that_ what this is about?” she questions almost incredulously. “You’re just _worried_ about me?”

“What did you think?” he snaps.

“I dunno, that you’re pissed at me for being a deadweight or something,” she reels off. “ _Be more careful, Hana, I can’t carry you whenever you fuck up.”_ The impression she makes of him is almost hilarious, if a little insulting, and in spite of everything else he can just barely manage a smile.

“I don’t sound like that,” he murmurs. “Though I’m _not_ always gonna be around to pick up the pieces.” At least she knows she did fuck up – smarter than he ever was at that age.

“God you’re morbid,” she accuses. “Is this a late-life crisis, or something?”

“Probably,” he replies with a sigh, and can’t not notice her sitting up properly and sweeping aside debris, patting a spot on the bed next to her. _Bad idea_ , he thinks even as he sinks down to sit on the edge, head resting in his hands. Not long before one of hers finds its way onto his shoulder, carefully repositioning herself until she’s sitting right beside him.

“I’m still here,” she says softly, and it’s half the problem.

“Just… remember who’s around you out there,” he requests brokenly, looking sideways at her. “No more flying from A to B without covering fire.”

“Yeah, okay,” she answers simply, as if it could be that fucking easy. “Thanks, Jack,” she says like she means it this time, and then leans in – he doesn’t move an inch, stuck in place – to press a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. “And you’re not _always_ right, you know,” she latches on coyly, a hand still on his shoulder as she pulls away and slim line of space between her bandaged leg and his on the bed. “Cause’ I feel better already.”

“Yeah?” he grunts, running his eyes up and down her like there’s some detail he’s missed that’ll explain what the hell she thinks she’s doing; why it’s like she wants this – him.

“Oh yeah,” she echoes brightly. “You’re pretty good at making me feel better, you know.” Lord knows he tries, whatever that makes him.

“Why me?” he dares to ask, watching her drift back in like he’s simply not going to notice until she’s on top of him, but they can’t ignore the elephant in the room any longer. He can’t, at least.

“Why anything?” she retorts disparagingly, only pausing in her descent when he leans back to deliberately evade her.

“Humour me,” he invites like it isn’t a bit late in the day for this talk. As if he doesn’t have a picture of his cum all over her ass that he never stopped looking at in spite of how hard he was trying not to think about her when he didn’t have his cock in his hand.

“Well… you _get_ it, I guess?” she remarks like she’s hardly considered it – while he’s thought about almost nothing but. “You’re a soldier too, so I… feel safer with you around.”

“Wish I could say the same,” he gibes, and she gives him a punch in the arm that tickles.

“You don’t _want_ loads from me, either,” she adds with a grin, fist retreating for now.

“Just one thing,” he asserts, slumped forward with elbows propped on his knees, looking up at her like the rising sun. “Don’t die before me.” She rolls her eyes – being morbid again, she must think, but he means it and she knows that too.

“Deal,” she offers gently before leaning back in again – but this time he doesn’t think he’s gonna stop her.

It’s only after she kisses him that he realises he’s had his finger knuckle-deep inside her and hasn’t even _kissed_ her – okay, she’s kissed him _,_ but this must be the first time he’s done it back. He engages slowly, incremental movements of his mouth as he turns up to her, finally returning some of the enthusiasm she’s heaped on him. He winds up to sit straight, overleaning as she draws back and lets him follow.

“See?” she poses when he practically falls off her, finally moving so far out of reach their lips pull apart like breaking a seal. “Not so bad when you join in.”

He doesn’t quite laugh – it’s not quite funny – just a breathy chuckle through his nose, then raises a careful hand to fit into the crook of her neck, her hair tickling his wrist as he looks long and hard.

There’s still a catalogue of reasons _not_ to do this, but he’s given denial plenty of chances and the bastard won’t take. He’s had his fill of trying to do and be the right thing only to find out he’s so far off the mark there was no point in his good intentions anyway – not when they aren’t connected to reality. Especially when reality is right in front of him, looking like _that_ and very much as if she’s waiting for him to kiss her.

“Yeah,” he admits before bringing her back in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words I made up in this chapter: overleaning. (I'm tired let me have this one). Not totally convinced by the last line either but also not convinced I can do a better job on this schedule. What a week *falls down*
> 
> True story I wanted this to be another smutty chapter and then all of these filthy *feelings* happened.... but not to worry, I've got a bonus "chapter" (aka porn) that I will endeavour to post whenever I finish writing it, free of these filthy shipping week shackles.
> 
> Thanks for joining the ride, folks!


	8. Video Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's literally the post-fic smut that I promised, so... yeah. It's smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I usually never do this but a friend of a friend (Penzie & embreon that's you) has been reading this and the thought of KNOWING I had all this smut (more than I thought) stashed away not to see the light of day was TOO MUCH so here, I posted it... all that time later. Also this goes out to the hopeful comments I get now and again from people who come across this little spitefic of mine.
> 
> So it's uh, very smutty. Just a porn. That's all. I wrote it when I was missing my s/o a lot during a LD relationship, so guess being ingloriously horny for a few months was worth it.
> 
> Not doing warnings because they're FUCKING OKAy that's all.

Jack Morrison had been no stranger to being on camera once upon a time, though it’s something he’s unexpectedly having to get used to again – although he’d never had to deal with press invasions while trying to eat anyone out before.

“Smile,” Hana titters, and he gives an obliging grin into the inside of her thigh. Yet it goes without saying she’s not satisfied, jostling him with her leg. “Look at the camera,” she instructs impatiently.

“No,” he responds, moving from one side to the other instead. It’s been about a month, and he’s spent more time with his head between Hana Song’s legs than most of her fanbase could even dream of. He’s sort of getting used to the inclusion of several electronic devices – some that he likes more than others (particularly those that vibrate) – when things heat up between them, but tolerance and cooperation are very different things.

 _“Jack,”_ she cajoles as his nose presses into the junction of her crotch, “Be good.” He moves to tongue her almost lazily, pretty much for the distraction – it works, because she angles into him.

“No,” he repeats obstinately, finding that the punitive way she tries to squeeze his head between her legs doesn’t impact his ability to draw his tongue through her slick pussy whatsoever. She’s finally getting her strength back in the leg that took a bullet – a recovery period that has involved a reasonable amount of physio, a _lot_ of this… and no sex.

Not that the last one is strictly related. They just haven’t yet, though not for lack of enthusiasm on her part. He doesn’t want to hurt her, so he says, and has deflected much of that onto her injury. Really, part of him is still waiting for the penny to drop, for her to wake up one day and realise ‘ _oh shit, what am I doing_ ’ then ditch him like the far-too-old for her sleaze he surely is. Except it hasn’t happened, and _this_ does.

“No?” she echoes incredulously, as if she doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Sometimes he’s not sure she does.

“You heard me,” he says, turning with a messy mouth to nip the inside of her leg. He could – had – do this _all day_ if it comes to that. She makes a noise that’s somewhere between annoyance and pleasure.

“If you’re not gonna pose then get out of the way of the camera,” she demands.

“Get that camera outta my face then,” he retorts, moving back in and sucking on her until she mewls.

“Fine,” she spits vindictively – when she can speak again – and then like it’s any real inconvenience to him at all, flips over onto her front, device gripped in one hand now better positioned to take shots of her face and perky tits hanging out of a pathetically baggy vest top. “But this is very bad behaviour, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs in a way that’s not really a question, teething a soft bite of an ass that regularly sways him against his more moralistic tendencies and into doing things to her that he’d be ashamed of if he had a shred of decency left; something that’s firmly disproven when he whips a hand not at all softly onto the other cheek and feels her shudder underneath him. “Cause that was a good one,” he slurs, smoothing a palm over the sting as she makes an agreeable sound, shoving her phone-hand back at him insistently.

“Lemme see,” a whine that comes out almost like one word, but he obligingly takes the device – more amenable to being on the other end of the lens – and waits for the handprint to come up in full colour before snapping her obligatory pictures. It would be an understatement to say she’s a little bit obsessed with herself, though this is admittedly one of his favourite angles on her; she’s got plenty, and he’s captured most of them. He manages to keep his own face out of the frame, but still has a nightmare where he’s identified by his dental records from the bite-marks before – Jack Morrison, still alive and fucking a teen idol; the press would have a goddam field day. Even if he hasn't actually fucked her yet.

“What about you?” he queries, drawing a couple of fingers through the liquid heat of her pussy – sure he helps, but Hana's usually soaking wet before he gets anywhere near her. Something to be filed with the rest of the things that make him so weak to her it’s impossible to resist, even with every voice about propriety and what would happen if word got out screaming from the back room of Jack Morrison's brain. Not when it’s that easy to hold a couple of fingertips right against her entrance and ask, “You gonna be good?” as he waits for her to push up on him.

“I’m always good,” Hana insists, sliding herself up on his fingers with a compliant whimper, and hell if he’ll argue with that.

“Atta girl,” he slurs, letting her chase his hand as he draws it back, lifting her ass up as she pushes herself onto him.

“ _Jack_ ,” she whines, writhing as she tries to work herself on a couple of fingers that clearly aren’t doing the trick. “Aren’t you gonna fuck me already?” It knocks the smile off his face – not because he doesn’t want it, just the opposite for that matter, but there’s a kick like a horse whenever he hears her say it where he wonders how in the hell he got here. Still fluking his way into things that’re too good for him.

Except watching Hana trying to fuck herself on his fingers with a flushed face and nothing that looks like uncertainty, this time instead of evasion Jack just asks, “You sure?”

“Are you for fucking real?” she retorts, which about answers it. “Condoms in the drawer.” Of

course they are.

Not just for him, either. It was a relief, surprisingly, when she first asked about it a couple of weeks after Jack buckled and they started… dating, he supposes it shouldn’t be called. The time they spend together takes place exclusively behind closed doors – he doesn’t have a death wish, and thankfully neither does she (anymore). Hana broached the topic of exclusivity as casually as she’s dealt with everything else between them.

             “You don’t mind if I still hook up with other people, right?” is how the spoiled diva phrased it after Jack had found yet another distraction or excuse to avoid crossing the line that she so clearly wanted of being fucked sideways and having to make do without. Jack had just carried on trailing his mouth along her collarbone, a fast cooling piece of splatter artwork streaked across her belly.

             “Would it make a difference if I did?” he murmured against her, finding it a comfort to know she still looks elsewhere; nineteen, of course she fucking does. He doesn’t want the pressure all on him, not even for her – being anyone or anything’s one and only is a responsibility he can’t take on anymore. And too many strings makes things difficult, not to mention hurt like a bitch when they got cut.

             “Not really,” she replied, fingers settling under his jaw to tilt him up to her. Long questioning looks like there would be a point sometime when it started making sense; fat chance. “But I’d like you less.” Swept her thumb on his lower lip, then pushed past to hook into his mouth like she was getting him primed for round two (she was). “You’re my favourite though.” Why he could’ve asked, but it’s become evident that his inability to understand isn’t something she can explain in a way that makes a lick of sense to him, so he’s just gotta take her word for it.

             “What happens if you get a new favourite?" he asked instead; a little insecurity, a little plain curiosity.

             “Hm… then I guess you have fight them shirtless on a mountaintop during a thunderstorm.” Jack had levered himself over her, propped up on his elbows and swallowing her up with his shadow before washing her in a soft chuckle and then an easily-flowing kiss.

             “Yeah, okay.”

“Would you _hurry up?”_ Hana's nagging him as he hangs over the perfectly laid-out expanse of her back, overexcited because instead of Jack's usual distraction tactics he’s actually just gone ahead and pulled open her bedside table drawer to withdraw a foil packet from between the various grown-up toys and candy factory of flavoured lubes. Except the fact that he’s left it on the sheets and is instead attaching his mouth to her neck instead isn’t quite how she wants things to go.

“No,” Jack issues firmly, even with his cock pressed against her leg and no argument about whether _it_ was ready to go. “You gotta be good.” His knee slides between hers, and without any invitation she’s grinding hard against his leg, soaking wet against him.

“I told you,” she basically moans, and if he weren’t so devoted to ensuring he never gets what he wants he’d be in her right up to the hilt now. “I’m _always_ good.” Jack backs slowly onto his knees shadowed by Hana, halfway shoved as she ambitiously grinds herself against the muscles of his thigh.

“Yeah, I can tell,” he says over her shoulderblade, and then feels the shudder roll right up and down her as he carefully closes her hair in his hand, pulling with a careful grip to guide her the rest of the way up onto her hands and knees in front of him. Holy shit if she isn’t a sight for

eyes that probably shouldn’t be his, but here he is anyway. “Where’s that camera?” he rasps in a low tone, and she thrusts her hand up with it clenched between her fingers, making sideways eye contact with the lens as he turns her head to the side with carefully exerted control. Hell if he doesn’t get into it from time to time.

“C’mon.” Hana heaves each breath, heavy lidded and looking like an utter fucking temptation; while she likes being a canvas in the many ( _many_ ) pictures of what Jack's to her (a direct result of what _she_ does to him), he prefers capturing her undone, stripped back til there’s nothing except the need for satisfaction – from him, no less – left. Wind her up and watch her go. “Please, Jack.”

He finally takes his thumb off the button and sets the device down, his cock pressing into the groove of her ass as he leans over her and collects the foil packet.

“Alright, you've been good,” he concedes, pressing half a kiss to her cheek before he lets go of her hair and pulls back up – needing both hands to rubber up, then working a thumb in and out of Hana before butting up the end of his cock against the wet mess that’s been made of her. Why it’s finally happening this time he can’t really say, except that she looks very especially like a girl wanting to be fucked right now, and he couldn’t resist forever. Not even for another day, probably.

Though, it’s entirely debatable who’s fucking who when Hana winds her hips up on Jack and then pushes back, slipping suddenly past the initial pressure so an undignified groan rips out of him, hands closing into tight handfuls of her ass that hold her in place as much as urge her forward.

“Fuck,” Jack delivers ineloquently, and _this_ is why – it’s been far too long for him to be anything except a wreck, the hot, slick feeling of her backing onto him turning anything coherent in his head to mush. “ _Yeah_ ,” he groans as she shifts and then forces all the way back, bottoming out on him like the absolute pro she is. Then she moves again and he tumbles into a, “Good girl,” like he’s got a puncture in his mouth that’s letting everything out at once.

“You all right back there?” Hana taunts, and Jack clenches one hand hard in the soft flesh of her ass, but raises the other to crack back down against her on the other side, feeling her contract right around his cock as he gives nearly as good as he gets.

“Fuck yeah,” he groans, holding her against him and rolling into her, feeling the pushback inside her and pulsing, wet heat. “You feel so good.”

“No shit,” she replies cockily – has known it all along, but she loves being told and he’s hardly made a policy out of denying her. “So be good and fuck me hard, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Jack groans helplessly, hands dwarfing her hips as he holds her firm and starts pounding like there’ll be no tomorrow. Maybe there won’t if she succeeds in fucking his brains out right now, pushing back against him as she makes catastrophically sexy sounds each time the thrusts deep into her, losing his goddam mind if he hadn’t already weeks ago when she put his hand between her legs and instead of running for the hills he fingered her til she came and then did so himself all over her ass. An ass that bounces on his cock right now like she’s moonlighting as a jockey.

On the principle of in for a penny in for a pound(ing), Jack wets the first joint of his thumb in his mouth and then presses it against the pucker of her ass, a rewarding sound coming out of her in response as focuses on playing with her rather than coming in her, at least in the short-term. It’d be a terrible waste to have it end so soon, and he wouldn’t want to endanger his position as her quote-unquote ‘favourite’.

Not that Hana appears to be having anything but a good time, whining and cursing with that pretty, filthy little mouth of hers as she pushes back into him. The first time she’d put it around him he’d practically bust a nut down her throat right there and then, because while assuredly and unquestionably most comfortable as the centre of attention, she’s certainly far from selfish. Hana gets off on Jack getting off on her enough to be plenty generous about the things she’ll do for him.

“Lube in the drawer too,” she adds as spit quickly dries with the way he’s teasing her ass.

“Yeah?” he queries, not that he doubts there is, but the barely-subtler implications.

“Go wild,” she encourages, panting more audible when he stops fucking seven shades of sin out of her and leans over without actually pulling out of her to drag the bedside cabinet back open.

“Preference?” he queries overseeing the multitude of products, chest pressed warm to her back, head over the curve of her shoulder.

“Surprise me,” she teases, a distraction from his purpose when she turns enough to meet him for a tonguey kiss, ended with a smile as she presumably feels him throbbing inside her. “Very good,” she praises while he grabs a nozzled container he can operate with one hand and pulls back upright. Slicks up and starts pushing his thumb past the ring of her ass, re-lubing as needed until he’s past the knuckle and can just about feel himself as he resumes fucking her again.

“You like that?” he dares ask as she makes noises like something in heat.

“Uhuh,” she affirms without actually stretching to full words, something she manages thereafter for the explicit purposes of requesting, “More.”

She can certainly take it, he knows – there’s toys in the grown-up drawer that’d possibly intimidate someone less secure (he’s got no fucks to give, except to her) – so he just gels up some fingers and sinks further into her. All this while still pistoning his cock in and out of her like he’s running trials as an engine part – she’s plenty happy with it, going by the _‘fuck, fuck fuck’_ that chains out of her as she pulses around him.

Almost clenches him straight out at one point, stopping in her as she rides it out with a noise he can absolutely imagine subscribers paying hundreds of dollars to listen to from the other end of a livestream – something he’s _not_ willing to play a part in, not for lack of her trying to impress on him how much money it’d make, or how sexy it’d be – which is a far more persuasive angle to work and if she doesn’t fucking know it.

Then again, Jack's track record for not giving Hana what she wants isn’t much to be marvelled at, so that might just make it a matter of time before he’s an anonymous cock she fucks herself with on camera for paying fans to imagine could be theirs. So help him if the thought doesn’t do something all kinds of twisted for him. Pasted all over a screen again, not that anyone would know it. It's delightfully fitting somehow; a fucking irony worthy of Strike Commander Jack Morrison.

He’d video her now if he had the hands to do it, but is otherwise occupied with holding onto her as he fucks nearly every hole she’s got. Hana slowly flattens out under him, until she’s front and face pasted to the mattress, back arched up to keep that morality-snapping ass neatly folded up for him to fuck until he can’t take it any longer.

Stopping just short of blowing his load, he sweeps his thumbs across the top of her ass and pulls out like he might have left a significant portion of his sanity hilt-deep in her.

“Already?” she queries in a way that doesn’t quite disguise her potential disappointment.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he returns, pushing her gently to the side to indicate which way she should move.

 _“Good boy,”_ she purrs, flipping over and up as he almost falls down onto one hand, then swings the rest of the way to lie down as she shuffles to her knees beside him.

“Hop on,” he invites, dick stood up like a rocket to be launched and she sure as shit doesn’t hesitate throwing a leg over him, hand to his girth as she pushes the tense ring of her pussy against his head, fucking herself on it with minute movements until he’s writhing under her like a bag of snakes. He said hop on, not tease him til he almost comes, but his translation of this sentiment is just to lay broad hands on her thighs and hold her in place as he slams up into her.

“Good boy,” she moans, having mercy on him as she starts to meet each thrust with a pro-styling bounce over him.

“Why’d I wait so long for this?” he groans to himself, letting Hana ride his fucking brains out.

"Because you're stubborn," Hana answers like a queen up in a castle, if said castle existed entirely on and around Jack's cock. She's rubbing her clit as she gyrates on him, but soon brings her fingers up to his mouth. Jack's a good boy: he licks them clean. "Are you gonna come for me soon?"

Just the saying of it is enough, bucking into Hana with a desperate grunt, _"Yeah."_

"Yeah?" Hana teases as weightlessly as her lithe frame feels over Jack, a slip of tight nothing that he ruts into like he's losing his goddam mind. Like he hadn't already lost it a long time ago, and this is just the proof of it.

"Yeah." Oh well, there could be worse ways to go.

Jack unloads with a ragged groan, pulse ripping through him like a freight train as he fills the condom inside her.

Leaning over with him still inside her, Hana links her fingers with Jacks as he lies flat-out on the bed, his broad chest heaving. _Wow_. It's been a long time since he got fully laid, and longer still like _that_.

And while he's the literal epitome of a sweaty old man, Hana just cranes down to Jack's mouth to press a delicate kiss against it, and proudly coos, "Good boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason I never 'finished' this was literally because I didn't know what to do once they'd come, but then I was like, wait, he can come and that'll be the end because that's often how this thing goes. Anyway, you get what you get, horndogs.


End file.
